Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (23 page)

“Damn ye, woman!” Iain
rasped, shoving her away from him. Flinging aside his kilt, he grabbed his still fully engorged phallus. “Is
this
no’ man enough for ye? Save for my bloody honor, I could rut on ye from now until Judgment Day!”

“Then prove it!”

“I willna fornicate with the devil’s harlot!” he roared as he shoved his kilt back over his hips. “Just look at ye, brazenly standing there in all yer naked glory! Ye’re Eve incarnate, with yer wee pink nipples like rose-colored gems and yer pale, white hips still writhing with lust. And I am naught but a weak, shameless man for ever inviting ye into my bed.”

“
Not to mention you’ve proved yourself a woefully inadequate Adam!”

Suddenly
turning his head away from her, Iain cursed aloud as he stared at the horizon. “Clothe yerself,” he said over his shoulder. “A rider approaches.”

Choking back an anguished sob, Yvette hurriedly grabbed
her chemise and yanked it over her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Iain stalk over to where his horse was tethered to a linden tree. Grabbing his scabbard, he unsheathed a sharply-honed falchion. Next, he reached for his battle ax. Feet spread wide, a battle ax in his left hand and the sword in his right, he waited for the fast-approaching rider.

God help the poor
, hapless rider
, Yvette silently pitied, sensing that Iain’s rage had yet to run its course.

S
till reeling from their heated interlude, she quickly finished dressing.

“How did ye
know I was here?” Iain shouted when Diarmid reined his horse to an abrupt halt.

“If I wanted to be alone with a lovely maid, th
is is where I would bring her.” Somewhat anxiously, Diarmid peered at Yvette. “Ye dinna look well, my lady. Are ye all right?”

Worried
that her voice might convey the depths of her despair, Yvette mutely nodded her head.

“The wench is no’ yer concern,” Iain snarled, still holding both
of his weapons. “Now tell me what the bloody hell ye’re doing here?”

“A message from
Lyndhurst has just arrived,” his cousin announced as he furtively glanced at Yvette. “As ye instructed in yer ransom demand, the earl’s emissary awaits ye on the mainland.”

“Did he bring the ransom?”

Diarmid shrugged and said, “I dinna know. There was no mention of it in the message.”

“I will go
now and meet him.”

Striding toward his horse,
Iain sheathed the falchion in its scabbard. The battle ax he shoved into the leather belt around his waist. With a lithe, athletic grace, he then swung himself into the saddle.

“What of Lady Yvette?” Diarmid asked, clearly taken aback by Iain’s dismissive
manner.

Refusing to favor her with even
a sideways glance, Iain said, “Take the wench back to Castle Maoil and lock her in the dungeon.”

Thunderstruck,
Yvette gaped at him in wide-eyed astonishment, too stunned to even voice a protest.

“I willna do it!” Diarmid retorted, his cheeks flus
hed with anger.

Iain reined his horse
alongside his cousin, the two men within striking distance of one another.

“Ye’ll do it because I am the MacKinnon an
d I have ordered ye to do so.” Then, ominously lowering his voice, Iain hissed, “And if ye dinna do it, I will have ye stripped and flogged to within an inch of yer life. I warned the wench what would happen if she contrived to circumvent me. ’Tis no’ my fault she didna take heed of the warning.”

“
Damn the wench!”
Iain fumed as he stomped across the harbor toward the bustling mainland village of Lochalsh.

’Twas bad enough
she haunted his nightly sleep. But now Yvette Beauchamp haunted his waking hours, as well. Not even Fiona, whom he had loved, had occupied his thoughts so completely. So obsessively.

By all that
is holy, I will not let the Sassenach bewitch me with her exotic face and winsome body!

No
r would he let her seduce him into shaming his clan and bringing dishonor upon his good name. Very soon now he would exorcise Yvette from his life; send her back to her whoreson of a father; then wipe her from his memory as he would wipe clean his claymore after a hard-fought battle.

But
how can I cast the wench from my heart?

Shoving
that bothersome question to the wayside, Iain yanked open the door of the tavern, anxious to meet Lyndhurst’s emissary. The sooner he concluded the negotiations and made the arrangements for Yvette’s exchange, the sooner he could rid himself of the lovely temptress.

Curse her for spoiling
our lovesport!

Why had she been so
insistent that he rut on her? And why did she beg him to let her remain at Castle Maoil? Surely, Yvette knew that her destiny was set in stone. As was his. She was to wed the Earl of Angus and he was to lead his clan against Longshanks’ army. Each was foredoomed to a fate not of their choosing.

But who in this world
is so blessed that they can choose their own lot in life?

None save
for the troubadours who made mock of the more sober-minded souls who refused to sacrifice all for love. And with good reason they refused. For God’s earthly kingdom would surely become the devil’s domain if not for the tempering influence of duty and honor.

Which was why the arrival of
Lyndhurst’s emissary was most propitious.

While
he was a strong man, Iain wasn’t invincible. As he’d ably proven when he came within a heartbeat of taking Yvette’s coveted virginity.

Standing in the entryway of the crowded tavern, Iain
carefully scanned the clientele, instantly recognizing the man that he was to meet. Not that he knew him personally, for he did not. But he knew his kind. At a glance, he could see that the well-armed man who sat against the back wall facing the door – so that an enemy could not take him unawares – was a mercenary knight, his services for sale to the highest bidder. What the knight offered was a well-trained body, a well-honed sword, and a complete lack of scruples. Such men roved the whole of Europe, riding from tournament to tournament, battlefield to battlefield.

And with
Scotland on the brink of war, such men will be arriving on these shores in droves.

As Iain approached the wood-planked trestle table, the steely-eyed knight rose to his feet, his right hand contentiousl
y poised above his sword hilt. Dark of hair, gray of eye, dressed in chain mail, Lyndhurst’s emissary had about him a sinister aspect that was unrelieved by the blood-red lion emblazoned on his black surcoat.

“I am the MacKinnon,”
Iain announced, coming to a halt in front of the table.

“And I am Galen de Ogilvy.”

De Ogilvy!

W
as
this
the man that Yvette was betrothed to wed? Curse him for being so brawn. No doubt, he will keep Yvette well-plowed.

Which should please the wench
immensely,
Iain bitterly opined.

“Yvette led me to believe ye were a much older man.”

“I cannot imagine that Lady Yvette would make mention of me at all,” the black-clad knight calmly replied, a hint of derision in his voice. “Unless you confuse me with my uncle, Hugh de Ogilvy, the Earl of Angus.”

Although he would never a
dmit to it, Iain was greatly relieved. While he loathed the thought of Yvette in another man’s bed, better a graybeard than a knight in his prime.

Impatient to commence the negotiations, Iain cast a sideways glance at the men-at-arms seated at the far end of the table, all
of them dressed in chain mail, a lion emblazoned on each surcoat.

“Why did Lyndhurst
send ye? Why did he no’ send his own knights?” Iain demanded to know, well aware that Lyndhurst’s coat-of-arms bore an eagle on a gold background.

“Our two families
will soon be joined in marriage,” de Ogilvy replied. “Because two thousand pounds is a goodly sum, Lyndhurst wanted to ensure that there would be no mishaps along the way.”

“And were there any mishaps?”

Lifting a shoulder, the knight shrugged and said, “Naught but a pathetic attempt at Scottish reiving. Rest assured, I dispatched the would-be thief to the grave in swift measure.”

Given the heartless smile that played at the corners of the
other man’s mouth, Iain suspected de Ogilvy had greatly enjoyed plunging his sword into the ill-fated robber’s heart. Remembering how Lyndhurst had treacherously betrayed him at St. Ives’ kirk, the knight’s offhand remark gave him just cause for wariness.

“Before we begin the negotiations, I would see the ransom
.”

As if
he’d read Iain’s thoughts, the other man mockingly placed his right hand over his heart. “To be so ill-trusted doth wound me to the quick.”

“Better to be wounded wit
h words than well-honed steel,” Iain said tersely.

“I do not
bleed so easily. As many men can attest if they were but living,” the knight added with a caustic half-smile. “The ransom is under guard in the back room. You, wench!” de Ogilvy shouted to a passing serving maid. “Bring food and ale!”

As
Iain followed the knight down a dark corridor to a room guarded by two men-at-arms, he surreptitiously slid his left hand into the swag of plaid that draped his shoulder, his palm gliding over the bone-handled dirk he had earlier hidden there. Because he feared a trap might be set, he’d purposefully demanded that Lyndhurst’s emissary meet him on the mainland rather than Castle Maoil. If a betrayal occurred, he didn’t want the beast unleashed amongst his people.

Upon entering the
windowless back room, Iain immediately realized that the only means of escape was the guarded doorway. Which meant that if de Ogilvy played him false, he’d have to battle his way out.

Scurrying behind them, the blotchy-faced tavern maid entered the room
, setting a plate of roast fowl and two tankards of ale on the small table set in the middle of the room.

Although he pulled his hand away from the dirk, Iain remained standing, ready to draw his sword
, if need be.

No sooner
did the door close behind the wench than de Ogilvy seated himself at one of the two high-backed chairs placed on either side of the table. “There are rumors circulating that Robert the Bruce is hiding in the near vicinity under the auspices of the Lord of the Isles,” the knight remarked.

Ach, so that is the way the wind blows
.

Like many a man
who’d heard about the recent bounty placed on the Bruce’s head by England’s monarch, de Ogilvy no doubt had hopes of collecting it. Particularly since Longshanks’ promised riches included land, title and gold coin, the sought after prize of every mercenary knight.

Feigni
ng indifference, Iain shrugged and said, “As ye said, ’tis naught but a rumor.”

“Do you not care to discover if there is any truth to the tale?” de Ogilvy casually inquired
as he tore a leg from the roast fowl.

“The King of Heaven could be gallivanting outside this very
door and I would care naught. My concerns are those of a simple laird: planting enough grain for the coming year, sheering the sheep, and collecting the spring rents. I dinna have time for political intrigues.”

“So you say.”

“Aye, I do say.” Iain stepped over to the table and reached for one of the tankards, draining it in three deep swallows. Then, pointedly staring at his adversary, he slapped the empty tankard onto the table. “And ye’d be wise to remember it for I dinna like repeating myself.”

“By God, you Scots are a quarrelsome lot.”

“Are ye no’ one of us?” Iain prompted, curious to ascertain de Ogilvy’s allegiance, many of the Scottish noblemen having yet to declare for the Bruce.

“Fifteen years ago I left England to seek my fortune in Scotland
,” the jaded knight retorted. “And while it is a long tenure, it hardly makes me a native son.”

Hearing that, Iain chortled derisively before he said,
“To my mind, it makes ye naught but a leech on the arse of Scotland!”

Clearly e
nraged, de Ogilvy immediately lurched to his feet and grabbed his sword hilt, unsheathing the blade several inches. A blatant challenge.

Iain
quickly sized up his adversary. Should it come to a fight, they would be well-matched, both of an equal height and a similar build. The assessment made, he intentionally refrained from reaching for his own blade. The matter of the two thousand pounds had yet to be decided. There would be time later to battle the knight.

“That is more insult than I c
an stomach,” de Ogilvy hissed. “Were it not for England’s stewardship of this uncivilized hinterland, you and your savage brethren would still be living in the wild and worshipping pagan idols.”

“
At least I know where my loyalties lie,” Iain sneered, making no attempt to hide his contempt. “Ye’re no better than an English harlot who plies her body to any man with a spare coin in his pocket. And like the harlot, ye go where the winds of fortune carry ye.”

“
And I suppose that you don’t?” Smirking, de Ogilvy shoved his exposed sword blade back into the scabbard. “Or perhaps you don’t consider two thousand pounds a fortune?”

“I am no’ like you!
” Iain grated between clenched teeth. “And dinna insinuate that I am. Or, by hell, ye’ll live to regret it!”

Shrugging off the threat, de Ogilvy walked over to an ornately carved trunk situated
on the other side of the room. “You are
exactly
like me,” he said as he inserted a key into the metal lock. “You saw an opportunity and you seized it. My compliments.” That said, the knight flung open the lid of the trunk.

Like a man
suddenly come under a conjurer’s spell, Iain slowly walked toward the chest.

Sweet Jesu
! I’ve never seen so much gold coin amassed in one strongbox.

Spellbound, he r
eached for one of the coins. Pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, Iain held it aloft as he slowly turned it first one way, then the other.
Two sides of one coin.
He and Kenneth and been thus . . . until Lyndhurst had ordered his brother killed.

Now, three years later, the heartless brutality of that unforgettable day had been tallied, the blood debt to be disc
harged for two thousand pounds.

All of a sudden
, it seemed a paltry sum.

“I would have the exchange made on the morrow,” de Ogilvy remarked over his shoulder a
s he strode back to the table. Reaching for his tankard, he then said, “My uncle is eager to have his betrothed bride returned to him. Just as I am anxious to take my leave of this inclement hellhole.”

De Ogilvy’s ‘betrothed bride’.

The very woman who nightly haunted Iain’s dreams and daily consumed his thoughts.

Unwillingly,
he recalled his earlier elation when he first caught sight of Yvette standing on the top step of the keep as she’d searched the bailey for him. At that moment, he’d thought her the most lovely of all God’s creatures.

But when she attempted to use that same beauty to seduce him into dishonoring his good name, their intimate dalliance had tu
rned into an adversarial bout. For the sake of mere pleasure, Yvette would have brought shame upon them both. And though Iain could conceive of no greater bliss than to plunge his cock into her untried body, Yvette’s chastity did not belong to him. By contractual right, it belonged to the Earl of Angus.

The devil take the man for having legal claim on
my woman!

Cursing under his breath, Iain tossed the
gold coin back into the trunk, torn between his rabid lust for vengeance and that of his heart’s desire.